


The Next Day

by shutitloveactually



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Domestic scenes, Established Relationship, Fighting, M/M, There will be waffles, Wangst, reflections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutitloveactually/pseuds/shutitloveactually
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie's been sacked by Malcolm and neither man is happy.  The story takes place immediately after the Specials.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fallout

Friday evening. Utterly exhausted but elated after keeping his crown as king of spin after almost three days of battle, Malcolm finally makes it home. He shuts out the mixed emotions of the last three days and his triumphant return to form at the breakfast meeting, deciding that a large nippy sweetie before collapsing into bed is a fuckin’ fantastic idea. He pours himself a generous glass of single malt and makes his way upstairs, discarding his suit jacket and tie on the way. Sleep, he thinks, downing the whisky in one gulp and collapsing onto the bed fully clothed, already asleep by the time his head hits the pillow. Malcolm sleeps like the dead, his skinny body taking full advantage of the luxury of some R&R and the warm glow of the Laphroaig seeping through his weary bones.

Malcolm sleeps until late morning, which qualifies as a lie in. He wakes up slowly and stretches like an emaciated lion, feeling so relaxed after his stint as Sleeping Beauty he even considers turning his Blackberry off, but with a wry grin eventually decides against it. If you want to stay at the top you’ve got to be seen as fuckin’ indispensable and if you’re out of said loop for even one second the hyenas will be upon you quicker than two slags fightin’ over the last bottle of Lambrini in Lidl. After a long, hot shower Malcolm dresses in jeans and a fleece and heads downstairs to the kitchen for some coffee and toast. He looks around at the pristine kitchen, smiling at its tidiness and thinking about the carnage Jamie caused when he last cooked dinner. The repressed memories of the past few days decide to come flooding back in at that moment.

Jamie. Fuck.

The reality of his angry confrontation with his loyal lieutenant hits him hard. “Shitting hell, what have I done?” he moans as he bangs his forehead off the fridge, knowing full well that Jamie didn’t leak anything despite the threats and psychotic (even for him) behaviour. He only gave the younger Scot so much shit because he thought he would roll with the punches and play along; Jamie’s tighter than a fuckin’ nun’s arse and is the only person Malcolm truly trusts, but this time even Malcolm acknowledges he went too far in his desperate (but successful, fuck me I’m good) bid to stop his career from falling apart in front of him like Tom hitting meltdown point. Jamie had stormed out of the building and quite possibly his life after Malcolm’s summons to the breakfast meeting. Malcolm moans again, this time punching the wall in frustration and grunting in satisfaction as the plaster crumbles slightly. The physical outburst does nothing for his mental state of mind, however, and he sinks to the floor, head in hands. The quiet sounds of Malcolm sobbing soon follow. He cries like he’s never cried before, grieving for his only true friend.

\----------

Jamie’s Friday starts completely differently. The wolf is in distress; utterly devastated, extremely upset and the angriest he’s ever been. Thrown out of Downing Street by the man who wanted him – needed him – there in the first place, Jamie immediately hits his local dive with the sole intention of getting absolutely pished. He chucks the whiskies back in a darkened corner, snarling at anyone who comes anywhere near until he’s unceremoniously thrown out of the pub at closing time, completely pickled and extremely emotional (fuckin’ English with their pansy rules, whit’s wrong wi’ orderin’ another bottle ay Grouse at last orders, eh? No ma fault these soft southern cunts cannae haud thur drink). Somehow Jamie manages to make his way home, doing nothing to dispel the image of the stereotypical drunken Scot as he hits almost every lamppost along the way with surprising accuracy, muttering incoherently to himself. Luckily nobody who passes by can understand the drunken press officer, which is just as well considering the graphic descriptions of what he’s going to do to that fuckin’ scrawny cunt when he gets his hands on him.

After a few drunken passes at the lock and a lot of swearing, Jamie finally gets the front door open and stumbles down the hallway in search of more booze. The neighbours are well used to Jamie’s nocturnal activities and know better than to ask him to keep it down; Jamie has a circle of hell reserved for each of them and they’ve memorised his descriptions of each one by heart. After finding a bottle of some suspicious spirits and sticking a Jolson CD on the stereo, he falls onto the couch and cries his heart out in a mixture of grief, rage and self-pity; despite his psychotic image, Jamie’s biggest secret is his maudlin, sentimental nature. Of course, if this was ever discovered by anyone he would rip out their intestines, nail one end to a fuckin’ big tree and chase the nosy cunt around said tree until their guts had completely unwound.

All cried out and feeling much more like himself again, Jamie opens another bottle of booze and spends the rest of the evening thinking about his relationship with Malcolm. From their humble beginnings on a Glasgow newsdesk to running the fuckin’ show at Downing Street, the past 10 years had cowed in fear to the two Scottish wolves. They had seemed invincible. Inseperable. The ultimate team. When the inevitable happened and they finally fell into bed together, this extra bond only served to make their working relationship even tighter and their reputations even fiercer. The Caledonian Mafia had everyone in government absolutely terrified of them, however with this fear came a grudging respect; their methods may have been unconventional but by the wee man did they get the fuckin’ job done. The intense sex at the end of most days was the only thing that kept the both of them from burning out.

Then the fuckin’ Nutters had to start all their shite thanks to Malcolm makin’ a complete arse of things; what in the name of fuck does Malcolm think he’s doin’, going out tae play with Tom the brain deid mentalist anyway? Christ, Tom likes his wee pills more than a brickie fae Wishaw on a Friday night. When that crazy cunt finally tops himself and takes that stupit, senile auld wanker Tucker with him he can fuck right off if he thinks he can come crawlin’ back to Jamie fuckin’ MacDonald. Behind the fearsome exterior Jamie hides a quiet intelligence and a supernatural nose for a story; despite his relationship with Malcolm he has planned for this unlikely eventuality and grins wolfishly at the mounds of shite he has quietly been gathering on his former boss, ready to lob it at the Thin White Cunt should the opportunity present itself. He also found Malcolm’s own dossier on himself (two faced schemin’ basturt), enjoying himself immensely as he burned the lot in the pantry bin. “Game on” he breathes quietly, finishing the last of the drink and belching happily.

Jamie finally gives in to sleep, Jolson continuing to croon quietly in the background as the second scariest man in politics curls up on the couch with a large smile on his face.

\----------

Saturday afternoon. Jamie snorts in his sleep and rolls over, falling off the couch in the process. He’s suddenly awake, arms flailing and a startled look in his big blue eyes as he rapidly figures out where he is and what he’s doing on the floor. The memories also come flooding back to him, but he’s in a much better place than Malcolm today and is back to his normal ultraviolent self, poised for a fight and raring to go. Jolson’s still playing in the background which only serves to complement Jamie’s high spirits. He wanders off to the kitchen in the search for a clean mug (ma kingdom for a coffee, Ah’d even settle fur that Starbucks shite right now) and is humming tunelessly to himself when there’s a knock at the door. Jamie had slept in his work clothes and looks like he put them on again this morning with a shovel, but Jamie has never cared that much for his personal appearance. The suspicious stain on the right cuff of this particular suit jacket had quite a substantial book running on its origin at the office (blood being the most popular guess) until Jamie found out, tried to make Glenn eat said book and settled for pocketing the money when Old Father Time managed to wriggle out of his powerful grasp.

Grinning at the thought of the night out that little scheme paid for, Jamie opens the door.

It’s Malcolm.


	2. The Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie receives an unexpected visitor.

Jamie’s good mood instantly evaporates as he sees Malcolm Tucker standing on his doorstep and quickly turns to one of dark and murderous intent.

“What the fuck do YOU want?” he breathes heavily, fists clenching as hard as his teeth.

“Jamie. We need to talk. Can I come in?”

“Naw. Fuck off and don’t return, you odorous malignant streak o’ pish that ye are.”

“Please?”

Malcolm continues to stand there, looking like the last child at the orphanage. His look of submissive contrition does nothing to appease Jamie’s temper, the eruption of which makes Mount Vesuvius look like an ornamental fountain.

“No you fuckin’ CANNAE! After everythin’ you’ve put us through over the past coupla days, everythin’ we’ve fuckin’ been through together, worked for, you side with the Nutters – the NUTTERS - and then you accuse ME of going fuckin’ psychobilly?! That cunt Boyle’s goat nothin’ on you! Yer fuckin’ welcome tae Tom, ya treacherous prick; Ah hope the two o’ye are really fuckin’ happy together but excuse me if Ah decline the weddin’ invitation! You fuckin’ sold me out pal; how DARE you think ye can come waltzin’ roond here wi’ yer Little Boy Lost look, thinkin’ it’ll make everythin’ better? How fuckin’ DARE you, ya...”

Jamie’s tirade is cut short by Malcolm’s knee connecting with his bollocks. Doubling up in pain and surprise, he gasps for air as Malcolm grabs his hair and shoves him up against the wall, his right knee wedging itself between Jamie’s legs.

“Don’t you fuckin’ start with me, boy” he breathes into Jamie’s ear. “Do you know how hard Ah’ve worked tae keep those soft cunts out of the way? How long? What fuckin’ alternative do we have? Ah’m all fuckin’ ears, by the way. What happened had to fuckin’ happen and Ah’m just as unhappy about the Nutters gettin’ their feet under the table as you are, but you just had to get in the fuckin’ way with yer partisan, fuckin’ Saturday night Motherwell pish, just when Ah really needed yer help. What the fuck were ye thinkin’, eh? You of all people! Ah thought you were onside, thought you of all people had the sense tae see where this situation was goin’. You’ve pushed me into too many fuckin’ corners over the past few days and forced me tae get rid of the only cunt Ah can actually trust!”

There’s a flash of dark curls and suddenly Malcolm’s face is covered in blood, his nose broken by Jamie’s forehead. “Get down out of that bastard pulpit ya cunt, Ah had enough o’that pious shite in chapel” Jamie growled, pushing Malcolm out of the way in order to swing a fist at him. Malcolm growls and blocks Jamie’s punch, attempting to land his own on the younger man’s cheek. He misses and Jamie rushes him, the two men falling through the door to Jamie’s messy living room.

Various piles of rubbish are knocked out of the way as the two men grapple, the blood from Malcolm’s nose pouring over the two of them. Looking like two crimson painted imps at a Beltane festival, they trade kicks and punches as each man fights to gain the upper hand. Jamie manages to avoid an ill-timed uppercut, ducking under Malcolm’s guard to plant his teeth into the older man’s bony shoulder. The lack of flesh there ensures that the young wolf’s bite fucking HURTS, and Malcolm throws his head back and roars as he attempts to go for Jamie’s nether regions again. Jamie senses the leg movement this time, however, and trips Malcolm up, the two of them falling to the floor. They roll around amongst the mess of empty bottles, dirty clothes and discarded takeaway boxes, each fighting to get on top as they continue to trade blows. Both men are too far gone in their respective rages even to throw insults, growling at each other in a primal struggle for superiority.

Malcolm is the one to eventually gain the upper hand, rolling on top of Jamie and securing both of the younger man’s hands with his right fist. He’s panting heavily, sweat mingling with dried blood as he glares down at the younger man. Jamie struggles, but Malcolm holds him fast. He wipes his face with his sleeve and stares down at the pint pot psycho, his icy blue eyes contrasting starkly with the remaining blood.

“E-fucking-NOUGH! Ah’m getting’ too auld fur this shite MacDonald, so just cool it willye? We need to sort this out and we’re no gonnae get anywhere if ye cannae keep yer temper in check and yer fists tae yerself.”

“Fuck off” Jamie retorts, his own ocean blue eyes full of hate, split lip giving him an unnatural pout. He struggles again, which only serves to make Malcolm hold his wrists even tighter, the older man’s gaze never leaving his. Jamie sighs, realising that he isn’t going to get anywhere lying on the hardwood floor with a beer bottle jammed uncomfortably under his back. “Alright, alright, Ah submit, Giant Fuckin’ Haystacks. Jesus Christ, Ah cannae feel ma fingers. Think ye could let go, eh?” he grumbles. Malcolm rolls off him but keeps a watchful eye on his unlikely lover, unsure of how stable their temporary truce really is. They both struggle to their feet, two predators watching each other warily, moving apart but poised to strike should the other one try anything funny.

“Look, we really do need tae sort this” Malcolm pleads, hands held open, long fingers spread wide in a gesture of honesty and supplication. Jamie watches him warily, but for now is prepared to listen to the older man and nods curtly, encouraging Malcolm to carry on. “The last thing Ah ever wanted is for us to fall out, but we both know politics is politics, right? I did what needed to be done. We both play the game to win and, let’s face it, no matter what happens these stupid woolly headed Sassenach twats need the likes of me an’ you tae keep them in check. The thing is though, even the mighty Malcolm fuckin’ Tucker can’t do everythin’ on his own. I need you, ya daft wee shite. More than you fuckin’ realise. No surrender, eh?” He takes a deep breath to steady himself, his impassioned speech being the closest thing to an apology in years.

Jamie stares back at Malcolm, his mind awash with conflicting emotions. However, Jamie believes that sometimes actions speak louder than words, especially when you’re so fuckin’ exasperated with the man you love you’re scared that you’ll say something wrong and ruin everything; even in his emotionally charged state Jamie realises that Malcolm really is sorry and he really doesn’t want to lose him despite it all. He walks towards the older Scot, pauses, takes his face in his hands and kisses him, hard.

Malcolm is taken completely by surprise and stumbles backwards, hitting the wall. Jamie continues to kiss him, holding him by the shoulders now as the two men engage in a new fight, however this one is a battle of tongues and hands. Bottom lips are chewed, sucked and spat out as each man competes to take as much of the other man into his mouth as he can, fingers roaming everywhere. They break off, both of them gasping for air.

“C’mon you” Malcolm wheezes, grabbing Jamie by his tie and dragging him to the bedroom.


	3. The Making Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and Jamie make peace with each other.

Jamie’s fighting for breath by the time he’s hauled into the bedroom by his tie; such is the force of Malcolm’s determination to get him there. The younger man is shoved down onto the bed and held down by the older Scot’s surprisingly powerful grip on his wrists. Malcolm looks down at Jamie as he straddles him, taking in his blood spattered face, rumpled curls and that look of angry longing he knows so well. He leans over and bites Jamie’s shoulder, hard. Jamie yells and tries to break from Malcolm’s grip, but he merely smiles languidly as he shifts his weight to push Jamie’s wrists further into the mattress.

“That’s for takin’ a chunk out of me earlier on, ya feral wee cunt.”

“Bony fuck. Ah think Ah broke two teeth on yer shoulder, Funnybones. Fuckin’ eat somethin’, eh? Yer modellin’ days are over Naomi, the only call from Select you’re ever gonnae get is the sort followed by the word Committee.”

Malcolm grins again at Jamie and leans over, this time biting his nose. Ignoring Jamie’s threats of what he’s going to do to the Shittest Toastrack Ever, he lets go of the young wolf to busy himself with getting him naked. The buttons on Jamie’s bloodstained shirt go bouncing off into the corners as Malcolm rips it open, moving onto Jamie’s belt buckle. Jamie takes the opportunity to attempt to sit up, but is immediately pushed back down.

“Stay there. Don’t fuckin’ move; Ah’m no finished with you just yet.”

Jamie shivers with pleasure at the authoritative tone and does as he is told, settling back down onto the mattress. Malcolm wastes no time in getting Jamie naked, stripping off the rest of his dirty clothing and tossing it onto the floor with mutterings of disgust (“Jesus Jamie, when was the last time you washed your suit? The fuckin’ homeless take better care of their shite than you do”). After whipping off his boxers, he gives Jamie’s proud erection a long, slow lick from base to head and takes it into his mouth for a moment, eliciting a loud groan from the man on the bed. Jamie’s groans of pleasure quickly turn to those of annoyance as Malcolm takes the younger man’s hand to pull him off the bed and into the bathroom, ignoring the complaints and accusations of being a fuckin’ prickteasing cunt.

“Right, get intae that shower. Ah’m no goin’ any further until Ah’ve washed away the Buckfast addled, disease ridden bodily fluid you have the cheek tae call blood,” Malcolm instructs as he rips his own clothes off.

“Eh, Ah think you’ll find an awful lot of said bodily fluid is actually yours, which is a fuckin’ miracle fur a desiccated auld cunt like you” Jamie retorts, stepping into the shower and shaking his head under the stream, sending bloody water everywhere. Malcolm steps into the cubicle and stands behind the younger man, wrapping his arms around his torso protectively. He rests his head on Jamie’s thick curls, his own erection poking the young wolf’s backside as the water streams over the two men. Jamie sighs happily, wrapping his arms around Malcolm’s as the two of them stand there, enjoying the feel of each other’s body. Looking at them like this, the casual observer would be forgiven for thinking they were looking at a normal couple enjoying a refreshing shower together, the tensions of the day being washed away by the warm water.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm murmurs into Jamie’s hair, closing his eyes against the stray drops of water falling from his hair into his face and awaiting the younger man’s reaction.

Jamie, lost in a cosy reverie, jumps in surprise at this. He considers the importance of this moment, truly surprised by Malcolm’s admission, but decides not to antagonise the older Scot. For once he’s too worn out for another scrap so soon after the first one.

“Me too,” he sighs. No fuckin’ surrender, right?”

“Right. It’s you an’ me against the world, Jamie. We’re the fuckin’ Old Firm and we are needed in that fuckin’ rat infested cesspit they call government.”

“We? Ah thought Teflon Tucker had everythin’ under control on his own?” Jamie teases.

Malcolm reaches down and squeezes Jamie’s erection tightly, ignoring the profanities. “Watch it, ya cheeky wee basturt. D’ye want back in or no?”

Jamie grins, wriggles out of Malcolm’s grip and playfully splashes him with water as he grabs a cloth and the shower gel.

\----------

It’s Sunday morning and Malcolm is the first one to wake. He yawns as he strokes Jamie’s tousled hair, the scourge of Motherwell gently muttering to himself in his sleep with his head on the older man’s chest. Malcolm has wondered a lot about exactly what Jamie mutters about in his sleep, but he thinks he's better off not knowing. The terror of Whitehall is feeling more relaxed than he has in months and grins as he recalls the antics of the previous evening. The makeup sex during and after last night’s shower was nothing short of phenomenal, the two men enjoying several earth-shuddering orgasms as they shagged their way around Jamie’s flat. He tries to stifle a laugh and fails at the thought of the kitchen table collapsing under the frantic motions of the two men on its surface, which wakes Jamie up with a start.

“Aw fur fuck sake Malc, that was an amazin’ dream Ah was havin’ and yer fuckin’ death rattle’s ruined it. Whit ye laughin’ at anyway?”

“Never you mind, MacDonald. Anyway, fancy some breakfast? Ah’m in the mood fur waffles.”

“Aye, a’right. Ah’ll get started on the batter then,” Jamie replies as he shrugs on a dressing gown, throwing a spare one to Malcolm.

“Will ye fuck; Ah’ll batter you if ye go anywhere near that kitchen without me. Have ye ever thought about goin’ intae the arms trade? The way you cook, Ah’m surprised yer flat’s still standin’.”

“Whit ye tryin’ tae say, like? Ah cannae cook? What about that that curry Ah cooked the other week? Ye seemed tae enjoy that, at least.”

“Away and shite. M&S ready meals chucked intae the microwave do not constitute cookin’. Ah saw the empty containers, ya chancer.”

“Aw c’mon Malc, ye said ye enjoyed it. That counts fur somethin’, right?”

And so they bickered as they made their way to the kitchen, the two wolves reunited. They had a lot to discuss regarding the new administration and strategies to plan. There was also a rumour that there would be fresh meat at DoSAC too, which filled them both with wicked delight.

Monday was going to be a very interesting day at the office, and Malcolm grinned as he imagined the reactions to the return of Jamie MacDonald.


End file.
